Tiny Little Ways
by codenamecynic
Summary: Fenris craves her touch, but Hawke is never sure how to navigate his boundaries. (Craving touch and cuddling. F!Hawke/Fenris, Complete.)


If you'd like a soundtrack to go with this piece, tumblr user bettydice composed this beautiful improvisational piano piece inspired by this fic - post/111466963164/i-love-you-he-thought-when-she-somehow-managed-to

* * *

It just so happened to be pouring rain.

That figured, it really did. Kirkwall had a nasty way of obliging her general mood this time of year with weather fit to match, and as a result the long slog back from the Wounded Coast had turned into just that – a slog. No, better, a ragged forced march through mud and blood and wind that found a way to fling raindrops right into her eyes and into all the chinks in her armor.

Nature was a spiteful bastard.

Anders was pissed. Again. He'd spent twenty minutes yelling in her face about mages while she stood there still smoldering from an errant fireball that she still wasn't completely sure he didn't throw at her himself in the first place. _Suck on a fireball,_ wasn't that what he was always saying? The next time he hit her with one of his stray spells she was going to give _him_ something to suck on – like that rock she'd picked up out there on the Coast when he'd crossed that invisible line and gotten a little too up close and personal, right before Isabela had been forced to step in and mediate.

Isabela. Mediating. That's how you knew it was bad.

Oh she'd apologize tomorrow, or he would. Probably. There was too much history there, too many half-successes and mutual failures behind them for her to ever do anything really outrageous like bash his head in with a rock. Anyway, he'd just heal himself and it made the whole exercise sort of futile. Still, she was reserving the right to be good and irritated for as long as it felt somewhat satisfying, and after a long walk back to Hightown by herself in armor that weighed twice as much as usual thanks to every piece of it being soaked and dripping, she was looking forward to a long bath, a good book, and some Maker be damned fucking _silence._

"Bodahn," she called when she creaked in through the front door and stopped in the middle of the vestibule. "I'm ruining the floor." Her battered shield was let down with a metallic thud on the stone tiles, her sword with a clang, and she stood there drooping and feeling helpless while a puddle gathered under her feet and ruined all of Orana's hard work.

When there was no answer, she sighed irritably. "For fuck's sake, where is everybody? Bodahn? Orana? Maker help me – Sandal?"

All she got was Toothless, her incredibly huge and oft-slobbery mabari who came to the foyer doorway, sniffed her once, turned up his nose and then trotted off in the other direction.

"Thanks a lot, you jerk."

A muffled bark was her only answer and she dragged a sodden glove down her face in annoyance and sighed. "See what you get, Marian?" She muttered to herself, divesting herself of the easier bits of her muddy armor on her own and, for lack of a better plan, stacking them into a dripping pile. "You try and do something nice, keep muck off the floor, and look at what it gets you."

"And what would that be exactly?"

The voice was low, warm and familiar, but she jumped at the sound of it all the same, turning to look at the elf that leaned casually against the doorframe. The light from the fireplace in the foyer limned him in gold and she could see the breadth of his strong shoulders through the white fabric of the shirt she'd bought him months ago that he only deigned to wear as of late. It complemented the silver of his hair and the white markings that rose above the open collar to decorate his throat and chin and wound down along his forearms where he'd rolled the faintly-too-long sleeves.

He was, as always, beautiful enough to make her stop dead in her tracks, reminding herself not to stare.

She, of course, was wearing a pair of muddy pants, one pauldron, her breastplate and no boots. Sexy.

"Where is everybody?" she asked, instead of answering his question which, to be honest, she'd forgotten in the first place.

"Bodahn had a friend he wished to visit, and he took Sandal with him. Orana is out for the evening."

Her eyebrow rose of its own accord. "Out?"

His mouth quirked into that expression she loved so much; the half-amused, slightly self-righteous smirk that said most often _I told you so_ but sometimes also meant _I'm happy, but I'm not going to say it out loud_. "With that friend of yours from the Undercity. The chemist."

"Tomwise? I'll be damned."

"It'll be good for her," he said indulgently, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"When did you end up with a heart, Fenris?"

"When you gave me yours."

That made her stop, watching him come away from the doorframe fluid as silk and cross the floor to where she'd stopped. He stood a few inches taller than she did, the difference exaggerated by her lack of footwear, and she had to tip her head up to look into his eyes. They were dark in the unlit vestibule, wintergreen fringed by impossibly long lashes, but she thought she saw a hint of a smile in them as he raised his hands to cup her cheeks.

His palms were warm against her wind-chilled skin, but it was the almost-but-not-quite-familiar touch of his hands on her body more than the difference in temperature that made her shiver. Gently he swiped the pad of his thumb across her cheek. "You have mud on your face."

"Is that all? There was a piece of pirate in my hair earlier."

"Delightful," he said dryly, and smoothed the damp locks of her hair back behind her ears. She'd cropped it short again, as always, and his fingertips found their way to the back of her neck, resting with gentle pressure as he looked her over. "Did they give you much trouble?"

_Did they hurt you?_ It was the question neither of them asked anymore, always fearful of the answer.

"Nah," she answered with a grin, tactfully refraining from mentioning the incident with the fireball and the screaming match that followed. "I'm the Champion of fucking Kirkwall."

Fenris held up one of her discarded gloves that was, at the present time, more charcoal than leather and pointedly raised a brow.

"Yeah, well… all's well that ends well."

"You should be more-" she leaned up to kiss the frown forming on his lips, silencing him for a long moment as his fingers dropped her ruined glove and caught themselves up in her hair instead, both of them often unable to keep mild gestures from going just a bit further than they ought. It made for awkward (or, depending on which of their friends you asked, amusing) moments in the Hanged Man, but here they were alone.

Alone.

_Hmm._

"Careful," she finished for him, ghosting her fingers over the soft fabric that covered his shoulder. "I am. I will be."

He didn't believe her, but then he never did, making a sound deep in his throat to that effect. Between the two of them they stripped her efficiently of her armor, leaving the metal and leather in tidy stacks against the wall and on the front bench to dry as best it could. Deciding it might be more awkward than appropriate for Bodahn and Sandal to come home to _all_ of her clothing drying in the front room she stripped off her tunic and breeches and balled them up in an untidy pile to take upstairs with her, turning to go until Fenris stopped her with a hand on her arm.

"You said they didn't give you any trouble," he accused quietly, his fingertips lightly brushing over a bruise currently blossoming over the ribs on her left side; something ugly, but insignificant enough that she hadn't bothered to have it healed.

Hawke snorted and waved him off. "It's nothing, you know I bruise like a peach. Stupid pale Ferelden skin."

"I'm quite fond of this skin," he said against the side of her throat, his hands coming to her shoulders and moving slowly downward over her arms, warm again against the rain-wet coolness of her. She stopped and stood still as she'd learned to do, half-wary of startling him into one of his abrupt withdrawals and half-understanding his need to search out every scratch, every mottled bruise on her body at the end of the day.

They never said _I love you._ Not with words, never once. She wasn't much of one for spoken sentiment or poetics; she'd leave that to him, he had the voice for it. That was, if he ever got over being completely terrified of the _implications._ She didn't even know what that meant exactly, but she did know that rather than speak of it he showed her. Every day since he'd come back he'd made it obvious in a thousand tiny little ways.

"Careful," she said again when he swept her unexpectedly up into his arms and bore her up the steps toward her room. "I'm heavy."

"Please." That smirk again, combined with a green-eyed glance that made her want to flush and fidget instinctually. "This isn't the first time I've carried you up these stairs."

"True," she agreed, trying not to smile. "But those were… hmm. Preludes."

He laughed, the deep rumble in his chest vibrating through her until she wanted to stop and fling her arms around him for the sheer joy in hearing it. "Is that all you think about? Isabela is a bad influence."

"I didn't hear any complaints about it last night."

Fenris sighed with false exasperation and paused at the top of the stairs to kiss her, just once, on the lips. "Woman, you will be the absolute death of me."

"Oh, I hope so."

He set her on her feet in front of the hearth. At some point he'd built up the fire and it roared comfortingly, her room much warmer than the rest of the estate thanks to her closed door and the heavy drapes that hung over the frosty windows. She'd done that for him, the curtains, to cut down on the idle gossip that he hated. The city's Champion taking an elf as a lover was not news that faded quickly, in no small part because neither of them took any pains to hide it.

Well, she didn't at least. Fenris was notoriously closed-mouthed about their relationship and rather than be hurt by it she'd chosen not to press the issue. It was all still too new and the bond between them seemed fragile as glass, though maybe it was her own insecurity and that, at least, she didn't speak of. Better to let it work itself out, to move at whatever pace he was comfortable with. She hadn't waited three damned years to scare him off now with overeager overtures of affection and sentiment shouted from rooftops.

Still, in some secret, soft spot in her heart occupied by him and him alone, it made her happy to watch him putter around her room with familiarity, retrieving the extra blanket from the shelf at the top of her wardrobe and spreading it on the floor before the hearth, uncorking the bottle of rich red wine she knew he'd gotten out of the wine cellar that she may or not be rebuilding on the sly just for him. Out of his armor and sitting cross-legged on the threadbare patchwork quilt that had been one of the few things to survive the journey from Lothering, he almost seemed at home.

At home in her home. She'd never thought it would happen. The thought summoned an unexpected lump in her throat that she swallowed down along with the wine when he pulled her down to sit with him, pressing a glass into her hand. She'd ended up close, the side of her bare leg against the soft fabric of his trousers and she thought to move and give him some space until he curled his arm around her waist. His fingertips played absently against her bare skin, hovering just beneath the bruise on her ribs and she took a deep breath to steady herself, pretending to do as he often did and 'take in the aroma' of the wine.

Honestly, it was all just alcohol to her, but it made him smile. "Do you like it?" he asked, and wordlessly she nodded, swirling the dark liquid around in the bottom of her goblet. She'd just as soon drink it out of a flagon, still unused to the glassware her mother had selected when their fortunes changed, but whether or not he knew it Fenris seemed to gravitate towards fine, breakable things and someone at least ought to get some pleasure out of her dubious success. If left to her own devices, she'd be eating day-old bread over the sink in the kitchen within the week because she simply couldn't be bothered to do anything more complex.

These were old thoughts, and tired ones, of her general unsuitability for this new life she'd fallen into, and when he looked at her face a little too closely she hid behind the wine glass again, draining it in one long uncultured gulp and setting it down carefully on the floor. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"I'd thought to surprise you," he said, but frowned. "I wished to see you, but… perhaps it was ill done. I should have asked."

"No need," she said quickly and gave him what she hoped was a smile bordering somewhere on nonchalant. She lay back on the quilt and pillowed both arms beneath her head, pointing her cold toes toward the fire. "Anything I have that you want, it's yours. You know that."

"But your home-"

_Could be yours too,_ she thought, but didn't say it. "The dog likes you well enough, so you know you're welcome."

He laughed as he was meant to and stretched out on his side next to her, propped up on one elbow. She could feel the heat of his hand hovering over the bare skin of her belly, and after a long moment she was surprised to feel the callused pads of his fingertips sweep across the flesh there. Tracing old scars and always that one first, the faintly raised bit that spanned almost the length of his hand from palm to fingertips; its twin lay across her back, a memento of the Arishok, though when she looked at it she always thought of Marlowe and Seamus.

And mother.

They didn't speak of it often.

"That feels good," she said to the ceiling, watching his face slyly beneath lowered lashes. There was a furrow in his brow, a symptom of Fenris and his incomprehensible thoughts, but the corner of his mouth lifted and his fingers ghosted over her skin, light and careful.

"Are you tired?"

She could sense him wanting to ask about the bruise on her side, about the success of their venture on the Coast, and about Anders whom she'd elected to take along instead of him. To save her nerves, she'd reasoned, but then it'd ended up in thrown words and nearly thrown stones, so she supposed she didn't have much to say for her endeavor. "Why, fancy a tumble?" She said in the brash Ferelden farm-girl way that always caught him off-guard and playfully quirked a brow.

Rather than flush and stutter like he did sometimes, he laughed shortly. "That is not the only reason I come to see you."

"No?"

"No," he said firmly, but his gaze flicked away from hers before she even so much as had the chance to smile. "I was rather wondering if you would… indulge me in something."

"Are you sure you don't fancy a tumble?"

"Hawke."

She laughed. "Alright Fen, what is it?"

Rather than answer he stood up and after a moment's hesitation, stripped off his shirt. There was something about the way he did it that always caught every bit of her attention, the way the muscles in his torso rippled for just a moment despite the movement's lack of flare, the flash of lyrium in the firelight, the way he bothered to fold the garment carefully and set it aside rather than flinging it as she would have done.

She was well and truly sunk, all caught up and breathless just watching him take off a shirt. Maker.

"You know you're sending me mixed signals," she accused lightly, sitting up. "You can't be," she gestured vaguely, "Like that and expect me not to want to touch you."

"That was rather the point," he said dryly, flushing under the tan of his skin despite the drollness of the words. "I wondered if you might… if you would do me the favor of…"

_You want me to touch you?_

She couldn't even ask the question, knowing instinctually that it would come out wrong – that there would be too much surprise coloring her tone, that he'd think she was making fun of him or assume that she thought he was being foolish. In truth, it was hard to just offer him her hand and guide him down to lay on his back as she'd done a moment before, wanting to tackle him like an overexcited mabari pup and bury herself in his arms instead.

They'd made much progress now that their time together had started anew – nearly half a year had passed since Danarius had gone and Fenris came back, waking up as though from a fever dream. He touched her, more and more often and with less and less hesitancy, though she was always careful about the way she handled him. Half the time their lovemaking was rough and combative and ended more often than not with her pinned under his body with her hands held above her head; she wasn't sure when it was alright to touch him, was never sure, and it wasn't something she felt brave enough to ask.

"Did you miss me today?" she asked softly as she stretched out next to him, feeling the need to fill the silence with safe, meaningless chatter as her hand hovered over his body, unsure of where to start.

"Always." He was watching her through his impossibly long, dark lashes in the way that made her heart stutter and her mouth get a little dry, and she had to remind herself to breathe when he reached up and took her hand and laid it palm down on his chest over his heart.

That heartbeat. Sometimes, in the dark when he fell asleep or chose to stay and she ended up with her ear pressed against his chest, it felt like it was the only thing she was living for.

"Good," she said, forcing her voice into smugness, feigning the confident, capable woman she was supposed to be to silence the giddy teenager she felt like. "I missed you too."

His skin was soft under her fingers, but she could feel the solid muscle beneath. His stomach flexed once as her touch drifted over his body without any set course, just for a moment, and then he sighed, relaxing. She let herself linger there for a long time, defining the contours of each lean, flat muscle with the pads of her fingers, caressing over the tanned skin that spanned between the white-pale markings of lyrium.

"Is this alright?" she found herself asking when she realized he'd been stone silent for longer than she'd realized.

Fenris opened one eye and looked up at her, nodding silently before closing his eyes, and suddenly she could breathe again.

She touched his arms, toying with his fingers and the fine lines of lyrium that striped his palms, the graceful bend in his wrists and elbows, the corded muscle in his forearms, the strength of his shoulders. Her hands explored the ridges of his collar bones and the hollows above them, and almost slid to touch his throat but didn't, thinking better of it. She touched his face instead and he turned into her caress, pressing his lips against the center of her palm.

For some reason she laughed, sounding nervous even to herself, and he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and rubbed the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone thoughtfully.

"I can rub your back if you like," she blurted, feeling like a rube, jittery as a virgin in the Blooming Rose, and was surprised when all he did was roll over onto his stomach, stretching his graceful body like a cat and pillowing his head on his arms. Unable to trust herself she groped blindly for the wine and took a swig straight out of the bottle.

"Hawke?"

"I'm here. I'm ah…" Her hands hovered again, hesitant as she knelt over him. "May I touch you?"

"Of course."

Of course; she laughed at that inside the privacy of her own head, feeling stupid as she reached for him again. His hips were familiar, the line of his back, the breadth of his shoulders, and that was the path her fingers took, tracing the contour of his spine. His skin was warm and brown there, graceful lines of lyrium to either side curling like vines over his flesh, and he groaned softly when she put pressure on the spot just below his shoulder blades where she knew he carried tension.

"You have terrible posture," she scolded lightly when approval rumbled through his body and into her hands, picturing him for a moment as a big purring lion rather than the wolf he was.

He only chuckled at that and was quiet again, lying silent and still and pliant for so long that it started to make her anxious again. "I'm going to touch your shoulders," she warned him quietly rather than babble on like a half-drunk Merrill, and he nodded his assent.

She got lost there for a while, tracing the shape of him; the dips and swells his body made that belied the strength beneath his skin, the faintly shimmering scrolls of lyrium, cruel but beautiful.

"May I touch the back of your neck?" she asked, feeling suddenly the need to thread her fingers through the silver-white of his hair. Her fingers hovered just below the nape, uncertain, and flinched away involuntarily when he rolled over onto his side after a long moment of silence and closed his hand around her wrist.

"I'm sorry," she said automatically, wanting to kick herself.

"Hawke."

"I didn't mean-"

He sighed heavily and sat up, half-lifting, half-dragging her into his lap. She might have squeaked, just a little. It wasn't a proud moment, and she sat completely still until he gently took her chin and brought her gaze up to meet his.

"I'm sorry?" she said again, not really knowing what was happening now, and he just shook his head, looking down his nose at her and through the veil of his hair. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, and didn't cease until she stopped trying to talk through it, letting her go eventually and gathering her against his chest.

"I don't want you to ask."

"What?" she said, baffled, all former threads of conversation banished by the very thorough kissing.

She thought he might shake her but he didn't, leaning down to press a kiss at the top of her shoulder instead. "When you touch me. I don't want you to have to ask. I don't ask you," he reasoned when she looked at him warily.

"That's because I like it."

"And what makes you think I do not?"

That wasn't a fair question and she couldn't even begin to answer it without summoning up figurative demons and raising specters of the past, and so she bit her tongue instead. He seemed to know it and at length sighed. "If I have given you that impression in the past, I apologize. Nothing could be further from the truth. I enjoy touching you. I enjoy your touch."

She knew that, of course she did, but hearing it felt different, somehow more real in the face of this impossible relationship. "I just don't want to screw this up."

"Perhaps what I said was insufficient. I crave your touch." He said it against her ear, the low rumble of his voice shivering through her until she wanted to shift and fidget and wrap her body all around him, but he held her tight, his warm hands smoothing up and down her back between the cloth of her breast band and the waist of her smalls. "Sometimes that is all I think about. Often I can think of little else."

"I've heard that before." It was out of her mouth before she could stop it, and his arms curled around her was the only thing preventing her from slapping her palm into her forehead.

She was half expecting him to shout at her, those broken pieces of their history always floating to the surface no matter how deeply she buried them, but he didn't, only taking her face in his hands again and pressing his lips to her brow. "I will not abandon you, Marian. Not now, not ever again."

"You never really left the first time." Gently she touched the fading red ribbon on his wrist, much tattered after three long years.

"I was still further away than I wanted to be."

"So stay. Tonight," she said, and meant forever. "It's raining after all."

He smirked at her, hearing the words behind the words and lifted her off of him, laying her down on the quilt beneath them. "Fen-" she started when he made to get up, but he shushed her and only went to add another log to the fire, coming back to stretch out next to her again. She lay on her side and him behind her, so close that they touched all along the length of their bodies, one of his legs moving to tangle with hers. She reached for his hand and he gave it to her, the other softly smoothing through her hair, tracing the rounded shell of her ear and the side of her face until she relaxed, eyes closed, and nestled back against him.

They lay like that for a long time, longer than she realized, and at some point she must have fallen asleep. When she awoke, dawn light casting gray shadows at the windows, they were still on the floor before the hearth. The fire had died down, the air was a touch too cool to be comfortable, and one of her arms was completely asleep where she'd ended up laying on it somehow, but Fenris was still there, warm and solid and real. She lay with her cheek pillowed on one of his arms, the other at her waist – not just flung over her, but curled around her with his hand tucked between her body and the floor. She could hear him breathing, slow and steady, his cheek against her hair, could feel the beat of his heart against her back and felt the echo of it inside her chest.

And inexplicably she wanted to cry.

She did, a little, when she reached out to snag his shirt and draped it over them for a little bit of warmth and he woke up for just a second, murmuring her name and pressing his lips to the back of her shoulder. He was asleep again in an instant and she lay still and silent listening to him breathe, her heart overfull.

* * *

Bodahn made for an excellent co-conspirator, shooting him a knowing glance when he wandered down late the next morning and into the kitchen, missing the shirt that Hawke still had wrapped around her. Blushing, Orana fixed him a tray with tea to take upstairs – the absolutely horrible and raw-tasting Ferelden brew that Hawke drank and the blend of dried citrus and spices that he preferred – and Fenris found himself grinning like a besotted fool at Sandal, who took no notice of him and wrestled with the dog on the floor.

Besotted fool; he supposed that was apt enough when he let himself back into Hawke's room to find that she'd curled the quilt around herself even though he'd built up the fire again, her face buried in his discarded and now much rumpled shirt.

He set the tea down and sat on the floor next to her, gently touching the exposed curve of her white shoulder, her skin cooler than he'd like. She shifted almost immediately, blinking blearily up at him with her head canted to one side. "I thought you'd left," she said and took his hand, sleepily and without the stutter of hesitation that broke her momentum when she usually reached for him.

He didn't answer, merely lifting her hand to his lips and pressing them to the backs of her knuckles. He loved these hands, battered and scarred as they were, scrapes and bruises there that seemed to be replaced as soon as they were healed. He could marvel still at how slender her fingers were, the smallness of her hand in his. There were times when she felt so fragile when he touched her; times when he forgot that he'd been punched more than once when this very hand balled itself into a fist.

There was a long moment where she smiled up at him, blue eyes blinking in the curtain-dimmed light, that he thought she might say something, but she only unballed his shirt from where she'd been clutching it with a grimace of apology and handed it back. "Smelled like you."

He smirked at that, scarcely caring about his wrinkled shirt, and spent some time smoothing the ruffled locks of her hair until she made a small, sleepy sound and closed her eyes. "Do you want to move to your bed?"

"I have everything I need right here."

He felt something move in his chest, watching the unguarded smile play across her lips - something like fluttering. He hated that trite description, that it sounded like something that came out of one of Varric's novels, but she could do that to him, make him feel things he never thought he was capable of.

That she could make him feel anything at all beyond the rage he'd believed was never ending was a gift he could never repay.

He crawled into the quilt with her, chuckling softly when she made a grumpy sound of protest when his bare chilly feet made contact with her warm legs beneath the blanket. "You're making me cold, bastard elf."

"Then let me warm you up again." He was laughing still when he covered her body with his and kissed her frowning mouth, smugly enjoying the way her blue eyes flew open, startled, and then narrowed at him.

"I knew you fancied a tumble."

That was the last thing he let her say for a long time, kissing the vestiges of wine from her lips, leisurely and unhurried until he felt her relax beneath him, her body soft and pliant. She restrained herself from touching him, her hands gathered into the quilt beneath her. It was not so unusual, no odd occurrence for him to hold her still or to order her that way with a growl and the threat of teeth at the pale hollow of her throat, but this time he lifted her hands and laid them against his chest. It was a long moment before she moved them, sliding them up over his shoulders in a manner so shy and slow it raised a possessive, protective urge in the heart of him and made him want to tear away the last remnants of her clothing and bury himself in her to the hilt.

He found restraint somehow, somewhere, and eased his lips from hers, trailing them to the delicate line of her jaw and to her throat before the uncertain expression on her mouth could turn itself into an apology. He knew where to touch her, gathered her hair in his hands and found the spot beneath her ear that made her breath hitch and her hips buck. Their lovemaking until now, aside from a few notable exceptions, had always been more frantic than gentle, products of long absence or close-calls or sheer desperation.

This time, though, he intended to be thorough. He kissed her strong shoulders, the tender spots where they met the curve of her neck, the hollow of her throat. She lifted a hand to cup his cheek and he sucked one of her fingers into his mouth, biting lightly at her fingertip until her eyes went wide and she reached for the fastenings of his trousers.

Sebastian said once that being with Hawke was like trying to hold the reins to an unbreakable filly; she was just as likely to buck or run off with you as she was to follow your lead. The priest had meant it in the context of combat, the recklessness only tangentially classified as bravery, but Fenris thought it applied here as well.

The Chantry brother would be scandalized if he knew. Or maybe he wouldn't. Either way, he caught her wrists and brought her hands up to lay against his chest again. He saw the flash of chagrin, the sink of her teeth into the corner of her lower lip that heralded a request for forgiveness, and kissed the hollow of her throat before she gave it voice. "I just want to touch you. May I touch you?"

"Fen-" she started, her voice sounding almost choked, and she blinked twice, quickly, her eyes bright. "You don't have to ask."

_I love you too,_ he thought, holding himself above her with one arm as he undid the laces that held her breast band in place. Her hands roamed more bravely now, tracing fingers over his shoulder, across his back and down along his arm.

He used to hate having his markings touched, even by her, protective of himself in the way starving dogs snarl over scraps of food, but now it scarcely seemed to matter. It was just skin, and it all belonged to her anyway.

There, the spot between her breasts where her skin was palest and he could feel her heart beating beneath – he kissed her there and filled his hands with her and felt more than heard her sigh, threading fingers through his hair. Her touch ghosted against his ears, dragging against their sensitive tips slowly enough that he knew it wasn't by accident. It made him shiver, pressing the already eager length of him against the sleek muscle of her thigh through the confines of his trousers, and he heard her laugh, leaning up to steal a kiss from his willing lips.

"_Festus bei umo canavarum,"_ he whispered roughly as she lay back, forcing his hands to be gentle and true to purpose when she arched her back up off the floor and he slid one arm beneath her, dragging her close as his mouth explored the familiar territory of her breasts, staking claim over snowy white swells and the impossibly fragile pink of pebbled nipples that responded to the heat of his breath alone.

He wanted her. Now. Immediately. It seemed as though he would never learn patience, but when she made the soft sounds she did when his lips closed over the tip of her breast he was happy to continue to practice. He laved her with his tongue, nipped with teeth and eager fingers until she was shaking. She didn't seem to know what to do with her hands, settling eventually on gripping his shoulder with one and her own hair with the other, throwing her head back and gasping sharply as her hips bucked suddenly against his and her body went rigid.

He stopped and looked up at her, and eventually her eyes opened and she looked back at him, baffled and wondering and then, endearingly, blushing.

"Did you just…?"

"I… wasn't expecting that to happen."

"Hmm," was all he said and she laughed, breathless and sheepish and then groaning softly as his hand left her breast and slid down over the flat plane of her stomach, dragging short cropped nails over her skin. They were both hot now, sweating beneath the thick quilt and he threw it off of them as he moved lower, pressing his lips gently to the bruise on her side, the old scar that cut across her belly, the curve of her hipbone above the waistband of her smallclothes.

She lifted her hips in suggestion but he pressed her gently back down again, skipping over the inch of fabric that cut the smooth curve of her hip to bring his mouth down against the top of her thigh. He could smell her, her desire, could feel the faint tremble of her muscles beneath him, and he bit her harder than he meant to, closing his teeth on the tender flesh of her inner thigh. She whimpered, dug her nails into his shoulders, and he kissed the spot in silent apology.

He moved beyond her reach, trailing his hands down along her thighs, over her bent knees and to her calves. Her feet were unexpectedly slender and delicate, much like her hands; he knelt up over her, tracing her shinbones with the pads of his thumbs, following the line of her body out to the tips of her toes. She'd leaned up onto her elbows, propping herself up to watch him, and he caressed the firm muscle of her scarred calves thoughtfully.

"You know you're beautiful."

She laughed. "What?"

Most women would play coy given such a compliment, or blush and feign ignorance but Hawke, Hawke looked at him like he was high on something.

"Beautiful," he said again, sliding both hands up her leg and guiding it into the air, lifting it over one of his shoulders so he could kiss the inside of her ankle and trace the remarkably long line of her limb back to the faintly red spot where he'd bitten her thigh. "You know you are."

"Mmm, yes. Just lovely," she lay back to pillow both arms beneath her head, eyes on the ceiling now instead of him.

"Marian."

"Hmm?"

"I think you're beautiful."

He saw her lips twitch towards a smile, just faintly. "Alright then."

Shaking his head he let her leg drop, kneeling between them now, and crawled back up to cover her body with his, kissing her lips with sincere gratitude when he felt her arms move to loop lightly around his waist. "You are beautiful," he said again, murmuring against her cheek, her ear, her hair as his mouth moved.

"So are you," she answered amicably.

"Hmm."

"Hmm," she repeated and grinned up at him, kissing his chin and the tip of his nose.

_I love you,_ he thought when she somehow managed to shimmy out of her smalls even with all of his weight on top of her.

_I love you,_ he thought as his trousers ended up tangled up around their feet and she laughed and nuzzled her cheek against the side of his neck, unhurried and unconcerned.

_I love you,_ he thought as sightlessly they found each other, her hissed intake of breath matching the sound of relief he allowed himself, groaning against her shoulder. Neither of them moved for a moment that stretched out endlessly, and he raised himself up above her, propped up on his elbows so he could see her. Her eyes were very blue, crinkled at the corners, faint lines in her otherwise smooth skin etched by the easiness of her smile.

And she still had mud on her face.

Inexplicably he found himself laughing and rather than question it she pulled him down into a kiss that bade his hips quicken against hers. She lifted her long legs and hooked them around his waist and he kissed her, touched her, loved her while pleasure slicked them both with sweat and their tea sat unattended, long since gone cold.

"Fen," she said eventually, when they both were spent and he lay across her flushed body feeling boneless and sated. He could hear her heart beating where his head lay against the top of her chest; she'd been quietly stroking his hair while they caught their breath, her slender fingers patiently combing through short white locks until he'd all but fallen asleep. "Are you awake?"

"Mmn."

She didn't say anything for a long time, pausing in her rhythmic motions only once when he answered her, and eventually he summoned up the will and energy to lift his head and look down at her. Their eyes met, her expression unreadable, and his brow had only begun to furrow in concern when she said his name again. "Fenris."

"Marian?"

"It's your turn to make breakfast."

That wasn't what she was going to say and they both knew it, but the corner of her lips was quirking upward into a grin that he felt himself mirroring almost involuntarily. Neither of them could cook worth a damn and someone, Bodahn or Orana, would chase them out of the kitchen if they even so much as tried, but that wasn't the point. _I love you_ was, and he answered the unspoken words with a kiss.

"I know."

She smiled and intertwined her fingers with his, and he kissed the back of her hand. Here, with her, he was happy, whole, content, and safe. Here was home and so was she, and it didn't matter if neither of them could find or figure out the right words to say. They had their own language, connected by heartbeats and heart-lines and hands in a thousand tiny, little ways.

And it was enough.


End file.
